


UnThai'd Pretzel

by pielmones



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 06:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pielmones/pseuds/pielmones
Summary: The Mayhem Twins try to deal with a bit of twistiness.





	UnThai'd Pretzel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aragarna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aragarna/gifts).



> I played a bit fast and loose with the timeline here. Didn't really give it a concrete place other than before season 5, after Carter's death, after "Most Likely To...".
> 
> Root/Shaw implied...ish?

The solid hammering of wood on wood had Reese sitting upright, pistol outstretched. Swept left, swept right. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in his bedroom. He stood up slowly and padded out into the hallway, following the faint scent of rewarmed steak.

Out in the kitchen, Bear raised his head, porterhouse still dangling from his mouth - but, curiously, over a plate holding all the drippings. A muffled _ruff_ of greeting made its way past the meat.

“Good morning, Shaw,” Reese called out without bothering to peer around the corner to the entryway. The woman in question did that herself, shrugging unrepentantly. She didn’t look as pleased as she usually did when she decided to have fun at his and Finch’s expense, or getting a chance to play with Bear. “Something wrong?”

“We got a new number, and Finch didn’t tell you on account of you gave him the flu. He asked me to play Mission Control while you did the fieldwork. Guy’s name is Kraisak Metharom. I did the usual background. He’s a journalist. Food critic. His most recent pieces were a specialty pizzeria on the East River waterfront, a Cuban place in the Bronx and an Indian buffet in Flushing. That last one’s the closest to where he lives.” Characteristically, she hadn’t wasted time whinging, even though Reese knew she hated desk duty.

“Never mind, Reese.” Shaw looked uncharacteristically distracted now, despite her reading his questioning expression. “Just bring me back a sandwich. Pastrami, extra mustard - ”

“ - Spicy and yellow, extra pepperoncinis. Don’t worry, Shaw, it’ll be a piece of cake.”

***

The day was warm despite the hour, and so the streets were filled with pedestrians. Reese sat in a car outside the address Shaw had given him for Metharom’s address. The photo she’d texted to his phone showed a stern-faced man with smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a sparse mustache and beard. The overall impression, he thought, was someone who hadn’t let a hard life grind him down. Not so different, in some ways, from Reese himself.

He scanned the sidewalks again. Nothing noteworthy ahead of him, and nothing across the street. A glance in the rearview mirror - nothing, nothing...there was someone matching the Thai man’s build and height, about 100 yards away. Heading to work, most likely, given the messenger bag slung across his back.

A short subway trip uptown let him pair Metharom’s phone and follow the food critic to his office, and from there, a sushi bar. The usual routine; what wasn’t usual was seeing a group of men all stop pretending to read the newspapers at the coffee shop next door when Metharom went inside, and get up to follow Metharom as he left. Frowning, Reese picked up the pace, tapping the programmed number for Shaw’s cell in his pocket.

“Go ahead, Reese.”

“I’ve picked up four tails on our man, all together in a group. I think this number might be more of a handful than we thought originally. Think you can come down and take over following him while I check out his office?”

“What’s in it for me? Bear and I are having a ball here, since Finch can’t watch him.” The dry amusement rolled across the airwaves.

“Nothing’s happened yet, but you might get to go four on one, no breaks, and I’ll be on the sidelines with that sandwich?”

“How do you manage to know my idea of a good time, Reese?”

“Someone has to give Root ideas.”

A half-choke, half-snarl was Reese’s only response before the cell phone beeped at him in a call-ended signal. He crossed the street and entered the three-story building. The directory pointed him to the top floor. A glance at the elevator gave him a bad feeling - the doors creaked open and the inside was visibly dusty. Taking the steps two by two, he made his way up to the top only to see Zoe Morgan waiting for the elevator.

He thought to himself for a moment. Zoe could be cagey, but it would save him the effort of suggesting a restaurant for the newspaper to send its pet critic to. Finch would know, or even Shaw with her endless list of steakhouses… not him. Decision made, he strolled across and cleared his throat.

“John. I was wondering if you would show,” Zoe commented, not looking surprised in the slightest. “As a matter of fact, I was going to call you myself. I don’t fail often, but this was one of the few times I couldn’t fix my client’s problem with my two words.”

“What might that be?” Reese knew better than to ask who she was working for this time, since it’d be easier to get information from a priest or a Swiss banker.

“They’d really appreciate it if a bad review by this paper’s food columnist were to be retracted. It takes away from the air of legitimacy they’d like to have. Especially when HR and the Russians have been the talk of the town most recently.”

***

Kraisak unzipped his jacket slightly. For whatever reason, eating Japanese food always made him hot under the collar, which he found amusing as it was hardly spicy. Turning the corner to the sushi bar, he didn’t have time to think before he was confronted by two farang in suits who boxed him in against a parked car. Both towered over him, nearly shielding him from sight of the passersby. Another two came up, one on each side of the car behind him.

“Is there some problem?”

“Only if you make one for yourself. There’s this article of yours that needs retracting, and - ”

“No, thank you, I’m not interested in doing that.” The food critic smiled. “Please move aside.”

The two in front looked at each other, then back at him.

“No, I don’t think we will,” said the one on his left, grabbing him by his jacket lapels.

Across the street, Shaw dashed off a quick text to Reese ( _Number accosted by four men. Moving in._ ) and began to cross the street. A moving van honked at her as it sped past and she stepped back, scowling. _Damn city drivers._

Her expression shifted into confusion as she saw two of the four suited thugs down on the ground, one with a compound fracture obvious to her even from across the street. It was just as obvious to the two beat cops who’d just turned the corner on the other end of the block from the confrontation.

“Stop! Police!” The foot patrol sprinted up and the two remaining thugs tried to get away toward their car. She continued moving forward anyway to get closer and follow Kraisak after the cops were done taking his statement, but her brows furrowed in surprise as the food critic himself chased down the two remaining thugs. Swift tugs on their coattails brought them both to the ground, sitting on their butts in surprise as Kraisak leapt past them, landed lightly, swept a hard roundhouse ankle-lashing that knocked them both out, and resumed running away from the NYPD in just about a single move.

She tapped her earpiece, then stuffed her hands in her pockets, walking away.

“Reese, you won’t believe what I just saw,” she interjected before he had a chance to say anything. “Our number just put down four guys by himself. Mob hitters, I think, we might need to check that with Fusco once the cops do all the paperwork. It took him less time to do it than one of us would, though - who the hell _is_ this guy?”

His response came back immediately. “Got it, Shaw. I’m with Zoe at the moment, she’s involved, too. The Mob is definitely behind this, according to her. We’ll see what we can dig up. And who knows, Shaw, he might just turn out to be a retired competitive boxer.”

“Zoe, too? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised by anything related to this number anymore.” Whoever Metharom really was could wait, she’d find out eventually with all three of them on the case.

A sandwich was calling her name.

*****

The trail picked up in the afternoon, with Reese and Shaw both sitting in an SUV. Zoe had begged off their intended stakeout to do her own thing. At the moment, they’d followed Metharom to a warehouse in the middle of an industrial zone.

“I guess we don’t expect it, but I never really think about planning for that kind of thing. When Wilson stabbed me in the back it didn’t really matter. The only thing that mattered was my partner bought the farm, and I knew what to do about that. People like us, it doesn’t matter what happened before, only what happens now and next. That’s another reason I don’t do relationships. One day at a time. Too much planning in advance just leaves you stuck.”

In her way, Shaw meant well, so Reese only nodded in response. Working with Finch had helped him take his mind off the past, for the most part. Exceptions being the husband and wife who’d set each other up, and Marshal Jennings. Still, she did have a point about something.

“The less we worry about things, the less we try to control. Good enough, I’ll take it.”

“Is that your story with Zoe?”

Reese kept watching the warehouse and didn’t answer.

***

It was another half hour before Metharom emerged from the warehouse with two duffel bags in addition to the messenger bag he’d gone inside with. Shaw lifted the binoculars to her eyes and checked the Thai man over. The only thing she could see clearly was the glint of metal shining through the gap between his jacket and waistband every time he bounced along in his jogging.

Reese started the SUV, creeping it slowly along the path out of the zone. A motorcycle blew past with a whiz and a blur.

“There, that’s him, hold on!” The SUV jumped, throwing Shaw forward into her seatbelt until she pushed herself back using the door handle. Looking at the dash-mounted GPS, it didn’t take long for her to figure out which way Metharom was going.

“He’s heading for Brooklyn. Can we cut him off before the bridge?”

Reese paused the briefest of moments for a stop sign before roaring off again. “Working on it. Asking Fusco to alert patrol on this wouldn’t turn out well, given how many weapons he probably just lifted out of that warehouse.”

That made a whole lot of sense. It was clear to Shaw, too, that Metharom was basically a less restrained version of themselves; the only unknowns were what he was actually capable of, and why.

“How about Elias? If these guys he’s fighting are Mob, Elias might be interested… Later,” Shaw hastily tacked on as Reese pulled up behind a traffic jam. Metharom’s bike had no such problems, and both of them stared holes in the windshield as it zoomed away.

*** 

Reese’s phone rang.

They’d just gotten word from Zoe, who’d worked her contacts (and magic) to get them a temporary phone for Elias. The crime lord wasn’t really willing to play ball.

 _“No, John. Thank you for the offer, but it was one of my warehouses this man hit this morning. I couldn’t look my men in the face if I let someone else, even you, handle it.”_ So that had been that, just about...

On top of everything else, Fusco had sent them pictures of seven bodies from the morgue. All with multiple injuries. Some that made it look like Metharom had been after some information, without being too picky about how accurate that information was. The detective had been shocked about some “nutjob food critic” running around the streets of New York, and that had gotten him to cough up a list of known and suspected Mob properties. He’d been sore about it afterward, though.

Neither Reese nor Shaw could have blamed him for that. Not after Carter, and the whole mess with HR threatening his son.

A light tapping on the window drew their attention and the muzzles of both their pistols. The hapless bike messenger threw up his hands and the manila envelope flew upward, smacking into the driver’s side mirror.

“Sorry,” Reese mouthed through the window, before buzzing it down. Or tried to anyway. The bike messenger, apparently, didn’t read lips - he took off before Reese’s hand reached the window control.

“I feel cheated,” Shaw complained, taking the envelope from Reese and tearing it open. “Thought I was the bad cop.”

“You can take the next time, Shaw. Now what did our friend on the bike give us?”

Shaw pulled out an official-looking folder with two emblems and Thai writing on it. One of a gold eagle, globe and anchor around a country’s silhouette over the globe, and one with the Thai flag, a yellow flower, and a yellow sword with three lightning bolts across the blade. It didn’t matter what the Thai script said; a Marine from anywhere in the world would recognize the first emblem’s eagle/globe/anchor combination. The second one remained obscure to her.

She opened the folder to reveal a Post-it and a thick set of sheets, all in Thai, with Metharom’s face in the top right corner of the first form.

_An all-encompassing digital deity told me you and the big lug were having a bit of trouble with an irrelevant number. I had some time in between relevants, so I took the liberty of bribing a few of the right people in the Thai Marines’ paramilitary reserves._

_Hopefully this clears a few things up so you can come enjoy the sunshine down south. /wink_

The Post-it wasn’t signed, but Reese took one look at it and chuckled to himself, despite Shaw throwing the folder at his face.

***

It was a piece of cake now only thanks to Root… and Fusco… and Zoe, who’d charmed or cajoled or threatened Metharom’s newspaper into giving them his address. Dollars to dimes a guy with his training would have hit the Mob joint farthest from where he lived.

Well, it was what the CIA and the ISA would have done, anyway. No telling what the Royal Thai Marines drilled into their ...national guardsmen?

It was as good a theory as any, but it seemed to be working out as a familiar-sounding bike came into view. Metharom took off his helmet. Looked up and down the street. Looked up. Seeing nothing, he opened the bike’s panniers and took out the equally familiar duffel bags. Striding as quickly as he could with a heavy load, he disappeared into a low, squat building with small windows up near the roof.

Reese dialed Zoe’s number; beside him, Shaw busied herself texting Fusco.

“You can tell your client now’s the time, Zoe.”

_“Thanks, John. I owe you one.”_

“Don’t mention it.”

It took less time than Reese expected. Long before Metharom finished up whatever he was doing inside and came out, two sedans and a limo full of goons and at least a mid-rank Mafia man pulled up curbside. Just in time for Metharom to open the door, take one quick look, slam the door mostly closed, and unleash a hail of automatic gunfire. Windows shattered and a few tires popped, the thugs all taking cover on the street side of their cars.

That was when white-painted NYPD SUVs stormed in from every direction and rifle-toting Emergency Service officers slid out yelling. The clatter of weapons being dropped on the asphalt reached them, and the dozen Mafia soldiers were lined up against their ruined cars, handcuffed and under control quickly enough. Another twenty minutes and a few flashbang explosions later and Metharom was on the sidewalk face down and ziptied as well. Fusco stood on the corner, arms folded, but looking grimly satisfied.

“Come on, Reese. I think our job here is done, even if I didn’t get another chance to be the bad cop. You can keep my sandwich, though - I want a filet mignon now. Two, maybe.”

Reese didn’t bother mentioning he’d never actually gotten around to getting her that sandwich in the first place. She’d have gone all hissy, like she had when Root had blown their location to Vigilance during the Wisconsin case…

Not that it mattered, since the hacker in question called them at the restaurant just to see how things had gone. An ill-timed joke about canceling the Red Notice she’d forged and put out on Metharom had ended with him apologizing to the waiter onto whom Shaw had coughed out red wine, and paying for dry cleaning.

At least, Reese hoped Root had been joking.

But in any case, it was a far lighter price to pay for working with this team than either of them had before. He could live with that.

(And so could Elias, apparently, who had cleaned up on Metharom's seized weaponry and the properties the Mafia had abandoned after the Thai man was through. More than enough to make him happy, Finch had calculated, once he'd recovered.)

_fin_


End file.
